Under the Hill
by Ceri Moriarty
Summary: "Alfred knew well the stories of the kingdom under the hill." UKUS, AU, faerie!Arthur, human!Alfred, non-explicit dubcon.


_a/n: This story comes from a prompt I wrote for myself some months ago for "England is a fairy with whom America falls in love." I intended something light and fluffy, with a bit of magical fun thrown in. Instead, I got…uh…this. I don't even know what the hell this is. Weird, I suppose._

_If I've buggered up their characters horribly, I do apologise. I haven't been writing for Hetalia much, these past few months. I found a shiny new fandom (BBC Sherlock)._

_WARNING: This story contains **dubcon**, or **dubious consent**. It's not explicit in the least, but it is incredibly heavily implied. Be warned._

_Feedback is greatly appreciated! Just let me know that you lot are still alive…and out there…and reading my stuff…_

_…anyone?_

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><p>Alfred knew well the stories of the kingdom under the hill. He put out milk by the doorstep, kept salt handy, always carried a bit of cold iron. His parents had taught him well, raised him in fear of the Fair Folk; the lesson was only enforced by the disappearance of his cousin Peter when Alfred was five and Peter nine. Alfred knew that the Fair Folk were dangerous. They wouldn't kill you, oh, no, but they would tempt you to their dancing and the next thing you knew five hundred years had passed.<p>

Alfred feared the Fair Folk; that was certain. But he was an adventurous boy, and determined to prove himself, so one night when he was seventeen and the moon was full, he crept out of the house and strode off towards the hill, pasted-on bravado concealing the spine-chilling fear he felt at the thought of being near the hill on a full moon night.

He met no-one else on his way—most people were sensible enough to stay indoors on the night of the full moon. But as he approached the hill, from which he could hear faint sounds of unearthly revelry, he met a young man, probably around nineteen or twenty, with messy straw-blond hair and vivid green eyes.

"Good evening," the stranger hailed him.

"Hi," said Alfred. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Alfred."

"You may call me Arthur," said the stranger, shaking his hand with a smile. "What are you doing out and about, so close to the hill on the night of the full moon? Don't you know of the Folk that dwell within?"

"I'm not scared of the Fair Folk," Alfred boasted. "But, uh, shouldn't you be inside?"

Arthur's smile widened, baring far too many teeth for Alfred's liking. "Oh, there is no need to worry for my sake." His eyes fairly shone in the bright moonlight, and in an instant, Alfred understood.

"You're—" he gasped, stumbling backwards a step, though he knew it would do no good even if he turned and ran. _I should've stayed home,_ he thought desperately.

"Yes—I am of the Unseelie Court," said Arthur, taking two steps toward Alfred. "Won't you come with me, fair mortal? It's nowhere near as bad as you've been led to believe." He extended a hand.

Though Alfred _knew_ that wasn't true, _knew_ that the Fair Folk were cruel and uncomprehending of human ideas like time and kindness, he caught himself thinking, _Yes, go with him—it'll be fun. Or are you too scared to see if the stories are true? To find out what it's like under the hill?_

In the end, curiosity won out over common sense, and he locked his eyes with Arthur's and put his hand in the faerie's. The world spun into a haze of silver and vivid green, then resolved into a bright hall filled with—people. _Faeries,_ Alfred's terrified mind supplied.

"Welcome, mortal," said Arthur, "to the Unseelie Court."

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><p>Time passed. Alfred tried to keep track of it, but there was so much noise and light and so many people that he kept losing count of the seconds. Eventually, he stopped trying.<p>

The food that was spread over the tables that were scattered through the hall looked delicious, but Alfred knew better than to eat of faerie food. If he did that, he'd never leave.

Just a nibble couldn't hurt, though, right? And it _did_ look amazing…

_No!_ he told himself firmly. Accepting Arthur's invitation had been bad enough—he didn't have to go flouting _every_ rule!

"Having fun, mortal?" Arthur asked him.

Alfred jumped. "Actually, I'd like to go home," he said honestly.

Arthur smirked. "Would you, now? That can be arranged, though I'll be sorry to see you go."

Alfred swallowed hard. "Yeah. I'd like to go back to the mortal world."

Arthur held out his hand, Alfred took it, and the world spun once more with silver and vivid green.

When it settled down, the faerie and the mortal were standing in a room built of stone, the floor covered in a brightly-detailed run and the walls hung with equally detailed tapestries. Alfred could almost swear that the images were moving (and, this being the Unseelie Court, he wouldn't be at all surprised if they were).

"This isn't the mortal world," he said, feeling the edges of panic beginning to creep up around the edges of his mind.

Arthur smiled. "We'll be there in a bit. I just wanted to show you a bit of fun."

Alfred swallowed hard again, his eyes flicking unconsciously towards the large four-poster bed that took up much of the room. "What—what sort of fun?" he managed.

Arthur laughed, joyful in the way of the Fair Folk—empty and cold, the joy of a vicious prank gone well, the joy of pulling wings off butterflies, the wild joy of a thunderstorm, destruction without care. "I think you can guess," he purred, tugging Alfred closer by their still-linked hands and kissing him, firm and demanding.

Alfred pushed him away, his breathing shaky. "No," he said, hearing the note of utter terror in his voice and hating it, hating how he sounded like a child struck by nightmares. Heroes didn't get nightmares. "No. I don't want—"

Arthur kissed him again, tugging him closer by the hips. "Quiet, mortal," he murmured against Alfred's lips. "You should be flattered that I'm even considering this."

"I just want to go home," Alfred protested.

"And you will," Arthur agreed. "Just not this very moment. You mortals are so impatient…"

"Please—let me return to my family _now_," Alfred pleaded, hating the desperation that coloured his tone.

"Have some patience, love," Arthur chided him, slipping his too-warm fingers under Alfred's shirt. "I'll be gentle with you, I promise, and then I'll return you to your family, and you'll never have to hear from me or mine again if you don't want to."

"What's the alternative?" Alfred licked his dry lips nervously, unconsciously. "There's—there's always some sort of choice, in the stories. Can—can I refuse? If I do, will you come knocking at my window every night? Will you—will you just keep me here, forever?" He swallowed hard for a third time, trying to remind himself that he wasn't scared, because he was a hero and heroes didn't get scared, not even when the situation was hopeless.

Arthur frowned. "Those would be the alternatives, yes," he said. "So it's your choice, mortal: would you rather one night, or the rest of your life?"

"I'd rather—" Alfred began, then stopped, because he knew what the _right_ solution was, the heroic solution, the one that he could be proud of later; but he also knew which solution would let him live the rest of his life in (relative) peace. And he found himself unable to deny that Arthur's vivid green eyes were enchanting, and the guilt that rose up in him wasn't quite strong enough to stopper his throat as he said, "One night. I'd rather one night."

Arthur smiled, warm and open (_lie,_ Alfred's brain shrieked at him, _it's a lie_), and pressed his lips to Alfred's neck. "Good mortal," he breathed, and Alfred fought back the unheroic fear and guilt and shame just long enough to nod.

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><p>Afterwards, Arthur dropped Alfred twenty feet from his family's front door with a quiet "cheers" and an underlying tone of <em>not like I need a mortal to have fun<em>. Alfred collected himself and went to knock on the door.

He'd been missing for three years.

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><p>Things were different, after. The world around him—the mortal world, the <em>real<em> world—felt much less solid and actual than the vague, bright memories he had of the court under the hill. His boundless energy seemed to have deserted him, and he moped about the house in his pyjamas, staring out of the window at the hill.

The pull to return was stronger than Alfred had expected. Normal, real life seemed unbelievably tedious beside the hours (years) spent in the Unseelie Court. He tried to drive it from his mind, tried to focus on his daily life and work—but it was no use. He felt filled with static, and the only way to return to his normal, awesomely heroic self was to return to the Fair Folk. He fought against the decision for as long as he could—heroes didn't give up without a fight—but, inevitably, he found himself again at the hill on the night of the full moon.

"Arthur!" he called, and the faerie appeared.

"Yes, mortal?"

Alfred held his head high—he was a hero, and heroes didn't bow their heads for anything. "Take me back under the hill."

Arthur smiled slowly, cold and cruel and vicious. "Good mortal," he breathed, and held out his hand.

Alfred took it.


End file.
